


An Impossible Situation

by alifeasvivid



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Accidents, Feels, Hospitals, M/M, comatose character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26676583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alifeasvivid/pseuds/alifeasvivid
Summary: Alfred is slipping into a coma after a car accident. The hospital has Arthur listed as his fiancé and therefore, his next of kin. Too bad they broke off their engagement two years ago.But with no one else to serve as Alfred's proxy, Arthur is faced with difficult choices.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is very sad. But it will end nice I promise.

Arthur Kirkland stares blankly at the hospital bed, only distantly registering the steady, slow beep of the monitor. He can’t bring himself to look at Alfred Jones’ face. It’s bruised, he knows that much. Alfred’s hair is in disarray from electrodes and gel and CT scans. His limp arms are covered in lacerations and bandages. His left leg is suspended and set in a cast.

The IV bag drips as a counterpoint to the beeping.

Arthur hangs his head in his hands, wishing he’d never answered the phone.

_“Is this Arthur Kirkland?” a female voice asks.  
_

_“This is,” he replies.  
_

_“Mr. Kirkland, I’m Nurse Bennet from the county hospital. I’m afraid I have some bad news. We have Alfred Jones here in our ICU. He was in a hit and run car accident about an hour ago. We’ve managed to stabilize him, but he remains unconscious.”  
_

_At first, Arthur feels nothing but a detached sort of pragmatism. “Alfred? Ah, I’m sorry to hear that, but I haven’t spoken to Alfred in almost two years.”  
_

_There’s silence. “You’re not his fiancé?”_

_That word sends all the blood in Arthur’s body straight out through his feet. He falls down onto his sofa and tries to remain calm. Alfred’s been in an accident. “Not–not for awhile now, I’m afraid,” he replies with no small amount of stiff upper lip in his tone.  
_

_“We have you listed as his emergency contact.”  
_

_Ah yes. Because Alfred has no family who would speak to him after he came out at 17. Because Alfred broke his arm three years ago trying to hang Christmas lights on the balcony of their flat. Because they lived together then. Because they were so in love and going to get married._

_And then they didn’t. Arthur has never been sure if he knows why… or if Alfred knows why either._

_“I… I suppose I am, but we’re not…” His upper lip is wobbling.  
_

_“Do you happen to know of someone we can contact? His condition is very serious and we need to have someone who can make decisions on his behalf.”  
_

_“No, he has no family… I… I’ll come. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”_

It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since Arthur arrived at the hospital. He has spent most of that time sitting at Alfred’s bedside and wandering to the coffee machine without getting any coffee. 

The police have been by to inform them that the driver of the other car was apprehended and is in custody. The driver was intoxicated.

Arthur’s heart pounds in desperation as his body occupies the chair. His mind is a million miles away. Alfred has to wake up. The doctors have said his prognosis is poor, but what do they know? They don’t know Alfred. Not like Arthur does. Alfred is the strongest, most indomitable person Arthur has ever met. His life force is too great to be so easily snuffed out by something as trivial as a drunk driver.

Arthur spares a glance up at Alfred’s face, but quickly shifts his gaze to the bland, colorless privacy curtain, the pattern on it a swirling mess of nothing. Alfred looks grey. Tears come then as Arthur remembers calling Alfred his sunshine, remembers how Alfred would always light up whatever room he was in.

The pain of realizing that he’ll be as devastated if Alfred dies as he would have been if they were married now is almost as painful as seeing him looking so lifeless already.

“Mr. Kirkland?” the doctor’s voice nudges him gently. She’s a very kind woman. Very compassionate. Bloody good doctor, clearly. Arthur hates her. “Mr. Kirkland, I know how difficult this must be–”

“Do you?” Arthur says numbly, coldly. “I haven’t seen him in so long and we haven’t spoken in so long… we called it off, you know. I hadn’t really expected to see him again. Now this.”

The doctor nods sympathetically. “It’s an impossible situation,” she says evenly. “We’re concerned that his brain damage is too extensive. The fact that he hasn’t woken up and that his vital signs are steadily decreasing indicates that he may be slipping into a persistent vegetative state. Even if he does wake up, it is likely he will never walk again and the chances of him regaining full speech are minimal at best.”

Arthur feels hollow.

“Without proper next of kin and with no advance directives on file, I must unfortunately place the burden on you to decide what to do.”

“Meaning what?”

“Well, Mr. Kirkland, is Mr. Jones the sort of person who would want to live in a coma? Furthermore, is he the sort of person who would want to live with severe impairments on basic functioning?”

“You’re asking me to decide whether or not to end his life?”

“Yes. It’s an impossible situation.”

If nothing else, Arthur can agree that it should have been.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur reaches out for some help and makes a decision about Alfred’s care.

No one in the ICU forces Arthur to leave, which he finds somewhat surprising underneath the roiling waves of all his other emotions, but doesn’t question it.

In the hours before he can finally look at Alfred’s face, he tries to go through Alfred’s phone, but it’s passcode-protected and Arthur burns with shame at the very idea of prying, aches at the thought that he might open the phone to find pictures of Alfred with someone new.

His own life has hardly changed except for Alfred’s absence, which has only made it more grey, less joyful, but certainly more stable. Arthur remembers a time when he once thought that was a good trade. Now he’d give anything to have Alfred upending him like before, often literally, bodily.

Alfred wouldn’t want to live as a vegetable. Alfred wouldn’t want to live paralyzed and probably unable to speak. He was so boisterous and loud, so active and athletic that Arthur sobs, dry heaving coughs, at the very idea of Alfred confined to a wheelchair, unable to be independent.

That had been why, hadn’t it? Alfred had felt smothered, Arthur had felt unappreciated. Planning the wedding had interested neither of them and had only served to highlight those feelings. Rather than talk it out, they broke it off.

Arthur tries to look at Alfred’s face again and can’t.

They should have just eloped. Now the doctors say Alfred will never be independent or even conscious ever again and Arthur is absolutely certain he would not want to live like that.

Arthur picks up Alfred’s phone again, the lock screen is some innocuous wallpaper that probably came with the phone. Arthur wonders what pictures are on it, what little games, what the calendar looks like.

He realizes he doesn’t know much about the shape of Alfred’s life from the past three years, but he does know one thing:

There’s no way Alfred isn’t still best friends with Kiku Honda... and Arthur does have his phone number.

“Hello?”

“Kiku, it’s... it’s Arthur.”

Kiku expresses surprise at first, but then listens somberly as Arthur explains the situation.

“They said it’s my decision because him signing off on me as his emergency contact is the last record they have. You know how his family is... I wouldn’t even want them involved in this. He wouldn’t want it. You know him better than I do now, surely. Is there someone else he’d want to do this?”

Kiku hums mildly and then is silent for a long moment. “No. There is no one else.”

“You’re his best friend, Kiku. I just... I don’t feel qualified to do this. We haven’t spoken in ages.”

“I may be his best friend, Arthur-san, but you are the one he loves. He has never stopped thinking of you or talking about you.”

Arthur’s heart hammers harder in his chest though his blood freezes and refuses to move. “Wh-what?”

“I have never understood why both of you called off the engagement. I’m sure, retrospectively, it might seem silly to you,” Kiku says in that even-toned, surreptitious way he has of saying everything. Arthur can read between the lines even now: you were both idiots.

Arthur looks at Alfred finally, feeling for a moment as if he actually is Alfred’s fiancé once again. He wants Alfred to wake up so badly, so that he can tell him he hasn’t stopped thinking about him either. It’d be a betrayal of everything he knows and loves about Alfred to end it all now, to deny that strength, that life force.

It’s then that the decision doesn’t seem hard at all.

“He deserves the chance to fight, doesn’t he?” Arthur says. “He would hate it if I gave up on him now.

“I think so, yes.”

“Thank you, Kiku. I’ll let you know once they move him if you want to visit.”

“Yes, please do, thank you, Arthur.”

The moment Arthur hangs up, he reaches out to hold Alfred’s hand. It’s clammy and heavy but still feels familiar. “Come back to me, Alfred,” he begs. “Please. I won’t give up this time, but you have to come back.”

The monitor beeps, the respirator hisses and clicks, the IV drips. Everything seems suspended.

When the doctor returns, she has forms. “Mr. Kirkland, please understand I am in no way trying to pressure you, but—”

“No. Keep him… plugged in or whatever bollocks, I won’t…” Arthur grips Alfred’s hand tighter. “I won’t—”

The doctor sighs, sadly, sympathetically. “We will respect your decision, Mr. Kirkland, but I would like to reiterate that Mr. Jones’ chances of revival are next to nothing, even if he does wake up, he will almost certainly have severe brain damage.” She says it gently, but firmly; she obviously thinks Arthur is not the right person to make this call because he’s probably experiencing emotional trauma over having to make life and death decisions about someone he broke up with years ago and it’s not that she’s wrong about Arthur… it’s that she’s wrong about Alfred.

“I know,” he says quietly.

“Any measure of recovery for Mr. Jones is likely impossible.”

Arthur’s mouth smiles without his consent as he remembers all of the times he told Alfred something would be impossible… it was impossible that he would ever condescend to go on a date with Alfred… it was impossible that Arthur would ever all in love with him, it was impossible to hang those bloody Christmas lights, and it would surely be impossible for them to ever see each other again.

“I don’t care,” Arthur says. “I just… I know he’d want me to give him a chance to… to fight… to wake up.”

The doctor nods and leaves with a sort of air that indicates she’ll try to make Arthur see sense later.

He won’t though because the truth, however irrational, is that Alfred F. Jones doesn’t know the meaning of the word impossible.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a month, Arthur sits at Alfred’s bedside. Just as he is about to give up, something changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A happy ending, as promised.

The nurses move Alfred into a quiet room, away from the ICU. Kiku comes to see him and tells Arthur in his mysterious way not to worry about expenses and Arthur doesn’t dare question him.

Kiku gently, insistently nudges Arthur out of the hospital to a cozy cafe and Arthur rubs his thumb over the rim of his teacup while Kiku sends a few emails and makes a few phone calls to Alfred’s friends and what Arthur gathers to be his place of employment.

Finally, Kiku sets his phone down and smiles placidly at Arthur.

“So now we wait?” Arthur says uncertainly.

“It would seem so.” Kiku sips his tea. “Perhaps you should speak to him. There is evidence to support that comatose patients can hear what goes on around them.”

“Ah… I’ve heard that too, I suppose.”

Kiku takes another sip of tea. “Alfred always lamented that he was not able to hear you play anymore.”

They part ways, Arthur returning to his apartment only to grab his bass guitar. If he doesn’t amplify it, maybe the hospital will let him strum for Alfred just a bit.

They say it’s fine as long as he keeps it down and for the next two weeks, Arthur plays different songs he knows Alfred used to love. Kiku supplies him with the spare key to Alfred’s apartment, to get familiar things to read or listen to, but it feels far too invasive.

Arthur reads instead from some of Alfred’s books that hadn’t gone with him in the break up. He reads books that he likes, historical fiction and poetry. Alfred had always been more of a sci-fi lover.

Kiku and a few friends that Arthur doesn’t recognize come by intermittently, but the conversation is kept to a minimum. Arthur has the impression that most of Alfred’s friends are saying their goodbyes.

The rhythmic beeping of the monitor and the whir of the ventilator keep time like a metronome.

As the second week comes to an end, the doctor returns to ask Arthur if he’s changed his mind.

He hasn’t.

“His chances aren’t going to improve the longer he stays like this,” she informs him.

“Is he in pain?” Arthur asks.

She hesitates. “Not that we’ve been able to ascertain, no. His superficial injuries are healing, which can be uncomfortable, but he’s on medications for it. But, Mr. Kirkland, his mind—”

“His mind!?” Arthur almost shouts, then coughs and composes himself and speaks more quietly, but no less sternly, “Don’t talk about his mind. You know nothing about him. To you, he’s what? A cadaver?” He shouldn’t take it out on her, she’s only trying to help. “Alfred F. Jones is the stupidest genius I have ever met, he’s brilliant and caring and he leaves his towels on the goddamned bathroom floor and forgets anniversaries, but he never leaves without saying ‘I love you’ and he makes everyone laugh and if you’d ever seen him smile, you’d… you wouldn’t even suggest…” Tears spill out again and Arthur collapses into the chair.

The doctor places her hand gently on Arthur’s shoulder. “Mr. Kirkland, I realize that this is a very difficult position you are in. It is rather unique for us as well. Is there no one who can relieve you of this burden?”

“Alfred’s not a burden, he’s the love of my life,” Arthur mumbles into his hands, but with no hesitation.

“The person you’re describing does sound very special,” the doctor says, “but that person likely no longer exists. If his vital signs were better or if he were more responsive to outside stimuli, I wouldn’t be here right now. But we have explained his situation to you, that it is very bleak, and while there is a non-zero chance he could wake up, I am wondering if you are keeping him like this for your own sake rather than his. Given the terrible situation you are in, I find it perfectly understandable. All I ask is that you consider that possibility. If you do and find that I am wrong, I won’t bring it up again.”

Arthur nods and she leaves. She’s probably not entirely wrong.

As another week goes by, Arthur starts to think that she could be right after all, that while it’s not impossible that Alfred could wake up, it’s highly improbable and he’s not really here, so who is Arthur actually doing this for?

The answer seems obvious.

Arthur takes all of the books home. He takes his duffle bag home. He leaves the bass.

He goes back to work and goes to the hospital afterward. Each evening, he plays songs for Alfred at a low volume and then goes home, where he often doesn’t sleep but pours over every picture of Alfred he has, from digital files saved on his computer to social media posts to physical photographs.

Alfred liked to have real pictures to hold, to show off, to put in frames. Arthur frames one from a few months before they got engaged and places the frame at Alfred’s bedside.

After a month has passed, Arthur decides to give Alfred one more week. Having come to the conclusion that he is mostly holding on for his own sake at this point, he figures that’s fair to both of them.

The few days later, Arthur sits with his feet up against the edge of Alfred’s bed, numbly plucking the chords to Don McLean’s “American Pie.” He sings softly, half-heartedly “So bye, bye, Miss American Pie…” It was a little on the nose, but that’s how Alfred was.

Was.

Arthur sighs. “I love you, Alfred. I hope you’ll forgive me… for all of it.”

Almost immediately, the slow steady beeping of the monitors and the click of the respirator both quicken. Alfred’s eyes move faster underneath his eyelids.

Arthur has almost no time to register it because not ten seconds after that, the room is flooded with nurses, the ones Arthur has become familiar with over the past month.

“Page the doctor!” one of them shouts. “Page her now!”

Arthur’s beloved bass guitar is ripped from his hands and tossed half way across the room as he is shoved out. The doctor brushes past him as she dashes in, the door swinging violently behind her.

In the hall, Arthur paces. He can see and hear all the commotion, but can’t make out what is actually happening.

It’s over very quickly, not more than thirty minutes, but to Arthur it feels like centuries.

Finally, everything settles down and the doctor comes out of the room. She is smiling broadly and only Alfred’s smile has ever made Arthur’s heart sing like that. “Mr. Kirkland, I am so, so happy to report to you that you were right. You made the right call.”

“He’s…?” Arthur can’t even bring himself to say it.

“Yes, he’s awake,” she replies, grinning. “There appear to be no ill-effects to his mobility or his mental processing capabilities which is… I’m not one to use this term, miraculous.”

“He can walk… and talk?” Arthur gasps in disbelief.

“Well he’s not paralyzed, but he’ll need a fair amount of physical therapy before he can walk unassisted again… and he’s a bit raspy from having the tube down his throat so long, but yes, he can… most definitely talk. He’s asking for you.”

“Th-thank you… thank you…” Arthur stammers.

“No, Mr. Kirkland, thank you. I am very happy to have been proven wrong in this case.”

Arthur points at the room. “Can I go—?”

She opens the door for him, “Yes, yes, by all means.”

Alfred rests against the bed, which is tilted up into a more upright position. He beams at Arthur and Arthur nearly falls to his knees. “Hey… Arthur,” Alfred says hoarsely. “You’re here. They told me, but I kinda didn’t believe it.”

Arthur launches himself at Alfred, wrapping his arms around him and kissing his face while still trying to be cautious of all the medical equipment. “Of course I’m here, you absolute jerk,” Arthur sobs into his shoulder.

Alfred hugs Arthur back. “They said I was out for a little more than a month.”

“You were.”

Alfred pushes Arthur back just a little so he can look him in the eyes. “They said you were here every day.”

“I was.”

“You didn’t pull the plug.”

“You’re not an appliance.”

“Ha. I remember that pout. I love that pout. I love you. You love me too, right, Arthur? That’s why you’re here.”

“Yes.”

“I’m really… really glad,” Alfred smiles, pulls Arthur back to him and cries into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me… for all of it.”

“Of course.” Arthur kisses his temple.

They embrace in silence for awhile, only the steady, perfect beeping of the machine to keep time.

“Hey Arthur,” Alfred says.

“Yes?”

“How come you didn’t pull the plug?”

“They told me that you waking up was impossible.”

Alfred laughs, though it’s more of a cough. “Did you tell them I don’t know the meaning of that word?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so prime time drama cheese and I don't even care. Kudos are love. Comments are life!


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